


A Fist for Hawkeye

by sendal



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:12:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Phil sighs in exasperation when Clint wants more water. Clint gets that. Phil is tired after a long day of wrangling superheroes, bureaucrats, and crazed villains bent on world destruction. Plus, Phil is grieving. But Clint can't reach the faucets himself and glasses are slippery in his clumsy fingers. It sucks to be dependent now on so many people for his survival and safety. But nothing's going to change until Clint finds a way to communicate or escape, and if he doesn't all his friends will soon be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fist for Hawkeye

Sometimes Phil sighs in exasperation when Clint wants more water. Clint gets that. Phil is tired after a long day of wrangling superheroes, bureaucrats, and crazed villains bent on world destruction. Plus, Phil is grieving. But Clint can't reach the faucets himself, and glasses are slippery in his clumsy fingers, and even though it's bedtime he's thirsty again. 

It's ridiculously hard, being dependent on so many people for his survival and safety. Despite telling himself to be strong, Clint gets a little teary at that look on Phil's face.

"Okay, but this is the last one," Phil says, relenting, and puts aside the book he's been reading aloud to go get the special cup. Because he's that kind of guy, even if he draws the line at changing dirty diapers.

Clint doesn't blame him for that, either. The diapers are impressively messy and stinky. Occasionally Pepper does it, if she's dropped by their floor on her way to a meeting or appointment or dinner date with Tony. She makes a horrible face when she peels away the fabric and witnesses what Clint has wrought. She says, "You are a toxic waste factory" in a mock-stern voice, and then sighs, and then cleans him up, and then kisses his forehead.

But Pepper doesn't visit as often as Clint would like. Most of the time Clint is in the care of Hilda, the young German lady with the impeccable credentials and references. Under Jarvis's watchful eye, she feeds Clint the mushy food sent up by Tony Stark's best chefs. She changes dirty diapers promptly and tenderly, using top-notch wipes and lotion. She plays with Clint, tucks him in gently for his naps, and is attentive to anything the tutors or therapists need. Phil thinks she's wonderful.

But that's only when Jarvis is watching. When they're out for a walk or field trip, she's not interested in giving Clint his meals or juice. She throws the food in dumpsters or the gutter. She sits on a bench in the park and talks to the birds while Clint shivers in the icy wind. She takes him to a used bookstore that smells like dusty and rat droppings and parks him in a narrow row of sagging shelves under a yellow lightbulb. While she is busy in the back room, Clint squirms under the growing fear of all those books and pages falling down to bury him with words he can't read anymore.

He doesn't cry, however. She doesn't like it when he cries, and he's had the broken bones to prove it.

As powerful and smart as he is, Jarvis doesn't know about the cold wind, the missed food, the scary bookstore, or the punishments. Hilda is always careful to weave repair and replenishment before they return. She whispers endearments in Clint's ear that tamp down his resentment and calm him to complacency. By the time Phil comes home, Clint is contentedly watching a movie and Hilda is knitting another blanket for the homeless shelter.

It sucks that Clint is trapped in a body that is incapable of doing what he wants it to do: walk unaided, talk in sentences that make sense, shoot an arrow into Hilda's heart. He can grasp some toys and make weak fists with both hands but weapons are out of the question. But some day, he vows, he's going to kill her. After turning him into what he is today, she is now his caretaker and tormentor, his guard and his captor. 

But what sucks the most is that neither Phil nor Jarvis nor anyone else in the Avengers Tower have figured it out yet, and they think Clint Barton is dead. There is only baby Stevie, who they think is Clint's illegitimate son.

It's enough to make Clint cry, but not when Hilda can hear. He won't give that bitch the satisfaction.

#

When Phil stops to think about it, he assumes Clint named his son after Steve Rogers as a kind of joke. But Phil's not sure if the joke was also a barb. It hurts that Clint was having an affair with Stevie's mother during his marriage to Phil, but the timing is unmistakable. Phil and Clint were married for five years. The ceremony at City Hall on a sunny spring morning was small and perfect, the honeymoon in Niagara Falls ("Let's zipline over it!") full of kitsch and coziness and athletic sex. Baby Stevie is about fourteen months old, with Clint's beautiful eyes and a DNA test that proves his paternity. 

It's hard to be angry with a dead man, but Phil excels at overcoming obstacles.

"What were you thinking?" Phil demands of the picture of Clint that still hangs in his office at SHIELD. "You always promised you'd never cheat. You said you'd come to me if you were unhappy. Bastard."

Anger never lasts. The ocean tide of grief rolls in, as strong as it was the day that Clint died in a fall off a glacier in Norway. They haven't recovered the body yet but there's no mistaking the footage from Iron Man's helmet. No human could survive a drop like that. Certainly there's no chance, six months later, that Clint is alive like a cave man in some hidden crevice, having subsided on snow and rock through a brutal winter. Iron Man and Thor have both promised to keep searching for the corpse, and Jarvis is on constant satellite surveillance, but Phil has given up on any hope of seeing his beloved's face one last time.

In addition to memories he has Clint's belongings, including weapons, an old circus scrapbook, and an impressive variety of purple hoodies. He has the pillows and sheets he bagged up a week after Clint's death when he realized Clint's smell was fading. He has Stevie, who is happy and healthy and a painful reminder, every day, that Clint didn't love Phil as much as Phil loved Clint.

Natasha can't explain Stevie, but she did thwack Phil's head with her sharp fingers when he dared once to say that aloud.

"We have no idea how he came into being," she said. "Just because he has Clint's DNA doesn't mean that Clint donated it voluntarily. Don't be stupid about it."

It would help, maybe, if Phil could talk to Stevie's mother, but she's a mystery woman. The anonymous call to the police about an abandoned baby in a Brooklyn apartment gave no information about the mother. The apartment was a month-to-month cash deal under the name of a woman who's been dead since 1928. Neighbors never saw her. The apartment had no personal effects except for a picture of Clint posing happily in a park, baby Stevie in his arms. 

Phil has thought, fleetingly, about letting someone else take custody of Stevie and raise him in a "normal" household. It would make Phil's life easier, certainly. He wouldn't feel obligated to be home at a decent hour, wouldn't have to get up in the middle of the night when Stevie's fussy (because Hilda, for all her great qualities, sleeps like a rock), and wouldn't worry about Stevie's future in a world full of violence and war, about all the dangers and hurts and betrayals waiting for him.

Just like Clint's betrayal. 

Phil tells himself that giving Stevie up isn't a way to get back a little at Clint. It's simply a practical and pragmatic course of action.

He stares at the ceiling at night, and when Stevie cries Phil goes to him. Picks him up from the crib, takes him to the rocking chair, tries to figure out what's wrong. It's not alway easy, because in addition to hunger, thirst, poopy diapers, gas and other baby ailments, Stevie sometimes suffers from bad dreams. His damp, warm face rests against Phil's shoulder and his little fists rest on Phil's heart. Phil knows he can't possibly push Stevie out of his life. Whatever Clint did that brought the little boy into the world, he's not there now to shepherd him through it. Phil will do what he can in his stead.

"You want some some milk?" Phil asks, stroking Stevie's small back. "Water? How about a story?"

He tells Stevie about his daddy. How incredibly brave he was, and strong, and agile, and full of life. How he saved innocent people from bad guys. How he liked nachos, and beer, and the color purple, and Niagara Falls. Stevie keeps his eyes on Phil's face and makes some of the faces he makes when he's pooping. They're almost comical. They would be comical, except this is Phil's dead husband he's talking about, and once Stevie's asleep back in his bed, Phil takes a hot shower and lets himself go.

On the weekends, when the sanity-saving Hilda has her days off, the other Avengers step up and help. Nat takes Stevie to the playground. Tony says public playgrounds are full of germs and so builds an indoor playground instead. Steve takes the boy to the museum but that ends hilariously badly, because Captain America draws considerable female attention on his own but Captain America with a little kid is a super-magnet that draws adoring women from miles away in a crowd that exceeds museum capacity.

Bruce takes Stevie to a bookstore, but Stevie has a meltdown and Bruce brings him home. Nat takes him to a different bookstore a few weeks later, with the same negative reaction.

"But he likes books," Phil says, because Stevie's room is full of them. Colorful picture books, books with fold outs, books that talk, books that promise adventure and joy. Phil reads to Stevie almost every night with no problem.

"Kids," Tony says. "Who can figure them?"

"I'll ask Hilda," Phil says, and Stevie starts to cry again.

#

"How strange," Hilda says when Phil mentions the bookstore reactions. When she's next alone with Clint outside of the tower she covers his mouth and pinches close his nose.

"If you're trying to send them a message, they'll never hear it," she tells him coldly. "And if your precious Phil does hear it, I'll kill him. Is that what you want?"

What he wants it to breathe. Tiny lungs have tiny lung capacity. Strapped in the stroller, pinned by her relentless hold, Clint tries to shake her free but he's so small and she's too strong. Spots float in front of his eyes and the burning in his chest threatens to consume everything. He waves his fists ineffectively.

"I can squash them all like insects," Hilda says. "And I'll squash you too."

She lets him breathe, and then makes him sit in his wet diaper for the rest of the day.

But she doesn't take him to the scary bookstore for weeks, which is sort of a win. 

#

Stevie is behind his peers in language and motor development, and despite tutoring and therapy he isn't making up the gap. He's a serious little kid, quiet in a way that Clint surely wasn't when he was little. He likes piggy-backs from Tony and bath time with Phil, and playing with his blocks and Avengers action figures, but he can't say more than "wa-wa" when he's thirsty, no matter how hard they try to teach him. He isn't great at walking, He isn't gaining weight or growing taller as quickly as he should be. 

"I don't believe in charts and milestones," Natasha says, sitting on the sofa and bouncing Stevie on her lap. He seems to like it.

A few days later Phil twists his knee out during a training exercise and has to take a week off to recuperate. He gives Hilda a few days off. She cheerfully protests, saying he'll heal faster if he's not hobbling after Stevie, but he tells her that he can manage. She goes off to visit her sister in upstate New York.

Stevie's appetite is steady, and he eats everything that the chef sends up. During that week he gains two pounds. He giggles more and sleeps better. When Nat visits and mentions Hilda's name, Stevie becomes restless and knocks his blocks over. 

"Jarvis," Phil says that night, "can you scan your footage of Hilda and Stevie, see if there's anything that might need attention?"

"I monitor events real-time, sir," Jarvis says, sounding slightly offended. "There have been no unusual or alarming incidents. Miss Knutson is very attentive, warm, and encouraging."

Phil looks at Stevie, who has zonked out on Phil's bed. His little fist is curled close to his face, thumb close to his lips. He's drooling on the sheets.

"On her computer she has researched how to help Stevie sleep better," Jarvis volunteers. "She has talked to the tutors about his progress. She tracks his height and weight, hoping for improvement."

It's not fair to blame Hilda for Stevie's problems. Phil will have to find his answers elsewhere.

He wishes Clint were around to help, but Phil's all alone with this responsibility.

#

Hilda takes Clint back to the bookstore. They are the only customers. They're always the only customers. She parks him in gloomy aisle but this time he has a narrow view of the back door when she opens it. Beyond the frame there is only an inky grayness, a howling wind, and the stench of something--or many somethings--dead and decaying. As HIlda crosses through she becomes elongated and twisted, closer to her real form than the thin, blonde shell she inhabits in this world. 

Clint's pretty terrified by it all, and to his shame wets his diaper. 

But he's still Hawkeye, still an Avenger, and he manages to hold on to his thoughts. Strategic thinking isn't easy when there are colorful toys to play with, or shoulders to ride around on, or neat games to play with Nat. It definitely isn't easy when Hilda skips his lunch, or slaps him for being fussy, or shakes him so hard his head hurts. But when Phil was home recovering from his injured knee, Clint found it easier to try and think up a way to communicate.

Not through his alphabet blocks. Spelling was never his strong suite, and now he can't even figure out the shapes.

Not through sign language. His arms and hands are too clumsy.

Not through pictures. He can't draw.

Not through words. Most of what he says is gibberish.

If he can't communicate, he'll have to escape. Trapped in the stroller, he tries working the plastic latches free. He can't get his fingers around the squeezy bit. His hands are good at making fists but suck at everything else. Finally, though, he manages to jam his right thumb down on the top, and wedges his left thumb underneath, and the little belt snaps back. He slides down to the floor on wobbly legs and starts for the door. If he can't walk, he'll crawl. He'll find help. He won't go back.

The floor lurches sideways beneath his soft white shoes.

 The bookshelves grow taller and closer, stretching in unnatural ways, stealing away all the air. Heavy books start to tumble toward him. The first one smashes down like a concrete block on his shoulders, and he cries out. 

A dozen books follow, striking him on his frail head and legs. Pages as thin as human skin shower down, choking him with dust and dried-out tiny bugs. Crumpled on the floor, he watches his own blood run out and cries and cries and cries for Phil. 

He's choking on blood in his mouth when Hilda re-appears and throws out her hands. In a language Clint will never understand, she commands the bookcases. The shelves retreat and shrink to their normal size. The books return to their proper spaces and reassemble their pages. Crouched in the aisle, Hilda reassembles Clint, too. He stares at her with all the hatred he can muster.

"Silly child," she chides. "You'll never escape me. You're trapped as you are until I decide otherwise, and the day I free you is the day all the Avengers die."

Those are fighting words. Clint tries to give her an obscene gesture, but his fingers aren't dextrous enough. 

Later Phil will ask, "How was your day?" and Hilda will say, "We had a perfectly lovely outing," and smirk at Clint behind Phil's back.

Imprisoned in the high chair, Clint manages to get his fingers around some Cheerios and flings them her way. Phil doesn't see it, and Hilda's smirk gets bigger. 

(to be continued)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and any constructive comments (typos, inconsistencies) welcome. Part 2 up soon.


End file.
